


Find Me

by inkinmyheartandonthepage



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Childhood, Completed, Falling In Love, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Holmes Brothers, Idiots in Love, Johnlock - Freeform, Kid John, Kid Lestrade, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock, Love, M/M, Romance, Soul-Searching, Soulmates, True Love, finding each other, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-19 07:57:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9428561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkinmyheartandonthepage/pseuds/inkinmyheartandonthepage
Summary: “Do you know how many people are named ‘John’, Mycroft?” Sherlock glared. “Do you honestly think ‘Greg’ is any easier to find?”OrSherlock and Mycroft struggle to find their soul mates when they both have common names.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! 
> 
> I hope that everyone has watched the new season! I loved it! The actors were amazing and the stories were fantastic! I am sad to see a lot of hate towards this newest season so I hope that everyone can put it aside and remember why we fell in love with these characters in the first place! 
> 
> Anyway! I know I'm doing another soul mate AU but I saw this little prompt and I couldn't get it out of my head! 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy it and I apologize for any mistakes that are in here :)

* * *

 

**Find Me**

* * *

 

**Part One**

 

“Alright class,” Mrs. Littleton said, calling her class to attention. “Today we are going to practice writing your Soul Mates name.”

 

Greg Lestrade straightened in his chair like the rest of his class did. Only last week had they learnt to write their own names, practicing it every day until they could spell it with ease. His soul mates name had been swirling in his mind for as long as he could remember and as soon as he had a simple grasp of the English Language he had finally spoken that name out aloud.

 

“I’m going to come around and copy down the name then I want you to practice writing it on the lined paper I’ll hand out,” Mrs. Littleton explained.

 

Greg tried not to be too impatient as his teacher started at the front of the classroom and made her way around. Like every other student, Greg listened as each person said the name they had known since their birth. There were multiple Tom’s, a few Jessica’s and a handful of Harry’s. As Greg listened his excited smile grew softer until the corner of his lips were tugging downwards.

 

When Mrs. Littleton finally approached his desk, laying a sheet of lined paper on his desk Greg very much did not feel like sharing and refused to lift his eyes.

 

“Alright Greg, what’s your soul mates name,” Mrs. Little asked, her pen poised on the paper ready to copy it down.

 

“It’s not like everyone else’s,” Greg told her through a mumble and he picked at a spot of dried glue on the desk.

 

“That’s alright dear, lot’s of people have different names.” Mrs. Littleton smiled. “There’s no need to be nervous.”

 

Greg looked up from the table and found his teacher crouching closer and giving him an encouraging smile.

 

“What’s your soul mates name?” she asked.

 

“Mycroft,” Greg said. His frown deepened when he heard her give a small gasp of surprise and the way her eyebrows flew up towards her hairline.

 

“That certainly is unique,” Mrs. Littleton said with a little hitch in her voice.

 

As she started writing the name down Greg saw that her hand was a little shaky and he swallowed nervously.

 

“Is it okay that his name is Mycroft?” Greg asked as she slid the paper around to face him.

 

“Of course it is,” Mrs. Littleton said and now she looked a lot happier then before. “A soul mates name, no matter what it is, is the greatest gift we can receive.”

 

Greg nodded and as she walked away he looked down at the complicated letters that lay out in front of him. Greg took out his pencil and his sharpener and twisted the pencil until the tip was pointy. He poised his pencil on the paper and examined the letters.

 

“Mycroft,” Greg huffed. “This is going to be tricky.”

 

* * *

 

“How do you write ‘Sherlock’?” John Watson asked. As soon as they words left his mouth he wished he could retract them. The air in the kitchen vanished in an instant and he shrunk back in his chair as his father’s eyes met his across the table.

 

“What did you say?” Mr. Watson demanded.

 

John swallowed and chanced a look at his mother. She had been at the sink washing dishes but as soon as he had spoken the plate she had been holding slipped back into the soapy water and was now looking at him with wide eyes. They darted to her husband and then back to John, her lower lip starting to tremble. All the colour had drained from her face and she looked as if she wasn’t even breathing.

 

Even Harry had stopped moving and didn’t dare look up from her plate where a half piece of toast was abandoned.

 

John jumped when his father’s hands slammed down on the table, making the glasses and cutlery laid out rattle. “Answer me!”

 

“How do you write ‘Sherlock’?” John repeated in a small, shaky voice.

 

“Where did you get that name?” Mr. Watson growled.

 

John swallowed and pressed himself further into the back of his chair. “It’s just a name in my head.”

 

Mr. Watson moved quickly. He chair skidded across the kitchen floor and tipped over landing on the ground with a bang that echoed through the small kitchen. He stalked past harry who flinched, eyes slamming shut. Before John had a chance to escape his father had grabbed the front of his shirt and hauled him out of his chair.

 

Scrambling for a grip, John clung to his father’s wrists as he dangled in the air, the collar of his jumper digging into his neck. He kicked out, trying to pry the fingers off him but his father was so much bigger and stronger.

 

“Oh don’t,” Mrs. Watson moaned but her husband simply shoved her away from the sink.

 

“Let me go!” John yelled, kicking out frantically but it was as if his father couldn’t feel a thing. Panic ripped at his chest as he was twisted around. He couldn’t gasp in enough air as strong forearm wrapped around his wait and a large hand cradled the back of his head.

 

“I’ll wash that damn name out of your head,” Mr. Watson growled.

 

John had enough time to suck in a panicked breath before his head was being slammed into the sink. Water rushed around his head and into his ears and mouth. He struggled, kicking and squirming. His hand gripped something and he tried to push himself out but his father’s grip was too strong. He screamed, soapy water rushing into his mouth.

 

Just as suddenly he was yanked out, the world a dizzying rush of colours as he coughed and spluttered, trying to suck in more air and the sound of his mother screaming muffled by his blocked ears. Then he was being shoved down again.

 

And again. And again. And again.

 

Finally he was pulled out and dropped to the floor. John hacked up the water and frantically wiped his face as he pulled in grateful gasps of air. His whole body was trembling and he couldn’t tell if he was sobbing or coughing. He heard a door slam and then flinched as smaller hand cradled him.

 

“Don’t ever mention that name again,” his mother told him frantically as her hands fluttered uselessly around him. “Don’t ever say it again.”

 

* * *

 

“Do you know how many people are called ‘John’, Mycroft?” Sherlock glared at his older brother.

 

“Do you honestly think ‘Greg’ is any easier to find?” Mycroft rose an eyebrow.

 

Mrs. Holmes rolled her eyes as she deposited a plate of breakfast in front of her sons. She had heard the argument many times ever since Sherlock had learnt what it meant to have the name of your Soul Mates name embedded in his mind since birth.

 

“You will both be grateful that you have names,” Mrs. Holmes scolded them lightly. “And there is nothing wrong with having a common name. Look at your father.”

 

Mr. Holmes smiled at his wife and accepted the quick peck on the lips, grinning as his son’s both made disgusted noises. “How lucky I am I found my darling Wanda.”

 

“And that I found the correct Tim,” Mrs. Holmes laughed. “How many I had to go through before I found you.”

 

“That’s my point!” Sherlock said, looking accusingly at his mother. “I don’t want to wait.”

 

“It’s worth it,” Mrs. Holmes said. She moved closer to her youngest son and tried to smooth out the mass of dark curls that were getting more and more rouge these days. “Solving the puzzle is half the fun.” She turned and winked at her husband.

 

Sherlock eyes sparked at the challenge of solving a puzzle but his mouth stayed firmly in a pout.

 

“How about a wager,” Mycroft said.

 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and the pout slowly slid from his face.

 

“The first to find their soul mate,” Mycroft continued as Sherlock’s silent intrigue.

 

“Mycroft,” Mrs. Holmes clicked her tongue.

 

“What does the winner get?” Sherlock asked.

 

“A favor,” Mycroft said, ignoring their mother. “To be called upon whenever with no limitations or questions asked.”

 

Sherlock pondered this quietly. Finally he nodded. “Accepted.”

 

Mycroft lips curled into a soft smile. “Excellent.”

 

Mr. Holmes chuckled quietly at his geniuses. “And what if your soul mates find you first?” he asked. He hid behind his morning paper to hold his laughter as both his son’s scoffed at the possibility.

 

 

* * *

 

“Mum! I need some sticky tape!” Greg yelled as he raced into the kitchen.

 

Mrs. Lestrade looked up from the stove where she was stirring something in a pot. “What do you need tape for dear?”

 

“To hang up my name,” Lestrade said, carefully showing his mother the lined paper where Mycroft’s name was written over and over again.

 

The letters were clumsy to begin with but grew stronger and clearer as he grew confident with his writing. He already made the decision to practice Mycroft’s name until it was perfect and then he would hang the better copy up but for now he had this.

 

Mrs. Lestrade smiled fondly at her boy and from a draw produced a roll of tape. “There you go dear.”

 

Greg took the tape with quick thanks and raced back to his room. He jumped on his bed and started pulling off bits of tape. His tongue stuck out with his determination and when all four corners were stuck to the wall Greg stepped back to admire his work.

 

He nodded and sat in the middle of the bed and stared at the writing.

 

“Mycroft,” he said. He tapped his chin thoughtfully and made a soft _hmmm_. Suddenly his back straightened and shot off the bed and raced back to the kitchen.

“Mum? Do you think Mycroft’s name will be in the phone book?”

 

Mrs. Lestrade held back her giggle and said, “Why don’t you check? It’s by the phone.”

 

As soon as her son was gone she laughed with delight, shaking her head fondly. She wasn’t surprised when he came back, the heavy phone book thumping on the table as he crawled up into a seat.

 

“You’re becoming a little detective,” Mrs. Lestrade said.

 

Greg perked up at the idea as he opened the phone book. His excitement dwindled rapidly as he searched through all the M’s in the phone book, coming across a lot of name that he couldn’t pronounce but not one of them was Mycroft’s name. When he reached the last one he closed the book with a sigh that was far too heavy for someone his age.

 

“Don’t worry dear,” Mrs. Lestrade said. “You’ll find him one day. You mustn’t be disappointed.”

 

Greg shook his head and puffed out his chest. “I’ll just have to become a detective and find him myself.”

 

This time Mrs. Lestrade had to hide her face so her son wouldn’t see her laughter and throw a tantrum.

 

* * *

 

John lay still on his back, one hand thrown above his head with his sheets pooled loosely over his chest. He didn’t dare make a sound, ears straining to hear any movement from his parent’s room just down the hall. He could still taste the soapy water in his mouth and his stomached gurgled ominously at the memory. He was scared that his father was going to come back and try wash Sherlock’s name from his mind again.

 

A creak in the hallway made his heart hammer in his chest and his blood turn cold. He scrambled up when his doorknob turned and he debated whether hiding under the bed was a good idea or not. Before he could attempt to hide the door swung open and a figure darted in.

 

John’s heart slowed from a gallop to trot when he saw that it was only his sister Harry but his body didn’t relax. He watched her as she crossed his room and climb onto the bed.

 

“All right, Johnny?” she whispered.

 

“What are you doing here?” John whispered, eyes darting to the door.

 

Both knew what the punishment would be if they were caught still up, way past their bedtime. They had only ever made that mistake once.

 

“I’m checking on you,” Harry hissed.

 

John shrugged but didn’t say anything.

 

“So Sherlock huh?” Harry whispered, shifting around quietly on the bed. “Interesting name.”

 

John only looked up when Harry’s hand lay over his.

 

“Don’t forget the name,” Harry said, her face the most serious John had ever seen it too be. “Don’t let dad make you forget him.”

 

John’s eyes darted down to the cigarette burns that were on Harry’s thighs when she had first announced the name Clara.

 

Harry pulled her shorts down over the marks. “We’ll find them one day but for right now we must never speak of them. Ever. Don’t forget but never speak their names. Do you understand, Johnny?”

 

John nodded as he could feel the phantom dishwater in his nose, mouth and ears and he shivered.

 

“Don’t mention it to any one,” Harry implored. “Not to your friends not to strangers, nobody. Who knows who will tell dad? Say it Johnny.”

 

“I won’t tell anyone,” John promised.

 

Harry nodded and slid of the bed before silently crossing the bedroom to the door. She paused at the door, listening for any movement before she slowly turned the handle. Then she was gone and John sunk back on to his back and pulled the sheets over his body, right up to his chin.

 

“Sherlock,” John whispered, committing to the way his mouth shaped the letters and how his tongue curled and moved to sound the letters for that would be the last time he would say his soul mates name.

 

* * *

 

 Sherlock had already eliminated the entire John’s at his school and deduced that he would not find his soul mate until he reached university. He was satisfied with this for it would give him much more time to develop his skills and be more impressive like Mycroft. However, Sherlock would like to meet him now, so that he may have a friend.

 

For now though he would be satisfied with his first mate Red Beard and the adventures they played. He was a loyal dog and Sherlock hoped that his soul mate was just as much.

 

He wondered if he could develop some kind of mathematical equation to find John. Mycroft had an advantage over Sherlock with his seven-year age difference. He was already at High School and it wouldn’t be long until he was introduced to more potential Greg’s when he left for University. It wasn’t cheating, just evening the playing field.

 

Sherlock found his mother in her study and eyed the mathematical books while he approached her.

 

“Yes, Sherlock?” Mrs. Holmes asked, not once looking up from the pages she was correcting.

 

“Is there an equation that would help me identify which John is mine?” Sherlock asked.

 

Mrs. Holmes finished marking the current equation before putting her pen down and turning to face her youngest son. “You don’t need an equation.”

 

Sherlock explained the advantage Mycroft had over him and if they were to have an even chance at winning their wager then Sherlock would need a handicap to make it even.

 

“You mustn’t worry about the wager,” Mrs. Holmes smiled. She lifted Sherlock into her lap and he wiggled to get comfortable. “Both you and Mycroft will find your soul mates when you are ready for them. It may be tomorrow or it may be many years down the track.”

 

“I want him now,” Sherlock said.

 

Mrs. Holmes kissed the top of his curls. “I know you do, darling. I’m afraid there is no equation you are looking for. I could help you work on one if you like? Once I have finished my markings.”

 

Sherlock nodded. “Yes.”

 

“Please.”

 

“Please,” Sherlock repeated.

 

Mrs. Holmes put him down and pushed him lightly to the door. “Go play and once I’ve finished I’ll come find you and help you with your equation.”

 

Sherlock nodded and ran from the room, calling out for Red Beard.

* * *

 


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much everyone! I wasn't sure what kind of response this would get but you have all been amazing! Thank you, thank you, thank you! 
> 
> I apologize for any mistakes and I hope you all enjoy!

**Part Two**

* * *

 

“Hey, my names Tiffany.”

 

Greg turned to the sultry voice that was practically purring in his ear and nearly spat out his drink.

 

“Hello Tiffany,” Greg smiled, spinning in his bar stool to face her properly. Tiffany turned out to be a very pretty girl wearing a very tight dress that highlighted all her assets in just the right way. Greg was happy that he decided to get changed before coming to the pub. “Can I get you a drink?”

 

Tiffany’s smile only added to her beauty. “I’d like that.”

 

Greg signaled the bar tender and ordered her another drink.

  
“What’s your name?” Tiffany asked.

 

Feeling very idiotic for not introducing himself, Greg willed himself not to flush. “Greg.”

 

He was taken aback when Tiffany’s eyes widened and then suddenly she gripping his arm, red painted finger nails digging into his jacket hard enough he could feel it on his skin. “Your name is Gregory?”

 

“Yes,” he said.

 

“Oh my god! Are you my soul mate?” Tiffany gushed.

 

Greg’s felt the bottom of his stomach drop. He took in her breathless excitement and could feel her hand trembling where she clutched him tightly. He hated this part. He sincerely hoped that she wouldn’t slap him like the last girl had.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said gently. As the bar tender handed over the drink Greg took it and gently curled her fingers around the glass. “Take a sip.”

 

Confused, she did as she was told and Greg gently lowered her into the stool next to him.

 

“I’m not your soul mate,” Greg told her gently.

 

Tiffany downed half the glass and licked her lips, smearing her lipstick past her lip line. “The name you have isn’t Tiffany, is it?”

 

“Afraid not,” Greg said.

 

She nodded and down the rest of her glass. With a steady hand she placed it on the bar and Greg watched her as she pushed past her disappointment and had the strength to smile a genuine smile at him.

 

“Tonight would you like to be my Greg?” she asked.

 

 _This has never happened before_ , Greg mused to himself. “If you want me to be.”

 

She slid her hand up his thigh, inching closer to where he instantly started to throb. “I do.”

 

* * *

 

“Welcome home, whore.”

 

John closed his eyes briefly at the slurring of words but re-opened them and finished climbing through the window into his room. He walked across the room and turned on the light feeling non-apologetic as his father hissed and blinked as he tried to adjust to the sudden light.

 

“You think I didn’t know about what you get up to at night,” Mr. Watson slurred.

 

“Thought you be happy,” John said simply, eyeing his father’s every move.

 

“That I’m housing the towns slut and the towns lesbian?” his father growled. “You think it makes me happy that people talk about my family likes this?” with a roar he threw the beer bottle he had been nursing.

 

John didn’t flinch as it hit the wall, shattering into a million pieces. Smashing bottles was a regular occurrence at the Watson house. It was a good night when it was over a wall and not over their bodies.

 

“You couldn’t just have a normal name could you,” his father advanced on him and John swallowed, widening his stance. “Instead you’re a faggot, sleeping with anything as long as you get off.” His father swayed, eyes un-focusing before they were on John again. He pointed a finger at his son. “I tried washing it from your brain, I tried beating it out of you kids and for what? For you to become a whore?”

 

John jaw clenched. He knew better to rise from his father’s taunts. He had learned long ago that fighting back was a cue to inflict more pain.

 

Mr. Watson took another step forward and the smell of mixed beers washed of John and he recoiled.

 

“You’re a disgrace, you faggot. Your soul mates a freak and you probably deserve each other,” Mr. Watson snarled.

 

“He’s not a freak and I’m not a faggot,” John snapped.

 

“You’re a waste, a disgrace and I wish I never had you disappointments,” Mr. Watson growled. “You should have been normal.”

 

John dodged the fist that came at him and threw his own punch, landing it on his father’s jaw and knocking him down in an instant.

 

“You ungrateful piece of shit,” Mr. Watson slurred and then threw up in the middle of John’s carpet. “Get out of my house! Get out!”

 

“With pleasure,” John said. He crossed the room, pulling out the rucksack he had packed ages ago, waiting for his moment to get out the Watson home. He had enough.

 

“You’ll be nothing,” Mr. Watson slurred as John went for the door. “The both of you. You and your soul mate.”

 

“No,” John said. “We’ll be brilliant and far away from you.”

 

* * *

 

 “Oh Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed.

 

Stepping cautiously into the abandoned building, Mycroft straightened his spine and powered through. In his crisp three-piece suit he stood out among the unemployed and homeless who wore little more than rags. He maneuvered around the drug addicts and searched each room until he found his brother.

 

He took in the state of his brother. His hair was greasy, his skin a shade of white and yellow that was becoming too familiar, his clothes stained and ripped, smelling of urine. Swallowing he stepped into the room and crossed to Sherlock as he lay sprawled on his side.

 

Crouching beside him, Mycroft gently lifted his brother until he was leaning against his suit. A needle dangled from his skin, still embedded within the vein. Gently Mycroft removed it and tossed it to the ground. Sherlock moaned, lips smacking together as his eyes fluttered open.

 

“Cocaine, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked.

 

“Is that disappointment, Mycroft?” Sherlock slurred.

 

“In myself,” Mycroft said quietly. “You are much better than this, Sherlock. I think John would agree.”

 

“John,” Sherlock slurred. “Common man John. How would we know what he would think? There are too many possibilities! Dull! I don’t need a John!”

 

“Your current state would prove otherwise,” Mycroft drawled and drew his brother closer. “Wouldn’t want to back out on a wager, would you?”

 

Sherlock snorted. “An abysmal attempt, Mycroft.”

 

“Perhaps when you are doing better,” Mycroft said. “When you are more equipped to listen.”

 

Sherlock nodded his head slowly and dropped his chin to his chest. “I don’t hate John.”

 

“I know you don’t,” Mycroft said and gently ran a hand over his brother filthy curls. He mentally reprimanded himself for allowing his brother to become such a state.

 

“Like you don’t hate Greg,” Sherlock murmured. “We just hate the predictability of their common name making them impossible. We don’t do impossible.”

 

“No,” Mycroft agreed. “We don’t.”

 

Sherlock slumped against him, nestling his head against his brother’s shoulders.

 

Mycroft adjust Sherlock until he was in his arms and picked his brother up. He grunted at Sherlock’s dead weight and adjusted his grip. With long purposeful strides he exited the building and to the waiting car. He gently placed his brother in side and slid in next to him.

 

“Thank you,” Sherlock slurred.

 

Mycroft smiled gently. “Your welcome.”

 

Sherlock lurched forward and threw up over their shoes.

 

* * *

“Times up.”

 

Greg placed his pen down and slowly let the tension release from his shoulders as he closed the detective exam. As he waited for the official to come collect his paper he leaned back in his chair and pulled out his phone. He waited for it to power up, tapping his foot as he did.

 

A chime rang out but it wasn’t from his phone.

 

Looking to his left he saw the guy next to him shoot him a grin. “Casey, my soul mate. New exactly when I was finishing.” The man laughed and his fingers moved across the screen to type a message.

 

Greg looked back at his own phone where no new messages awaited him. He looked up when the official took his paper and he stood up, collecting his jacket and sliding the phone into his pocket. He left the room without a word.

 

He was excited. He had been waiting to take his exams ever since he was a kid when his mother had first suggested he become a detective. It had stuck with him and he made a note to call her later and tell her the good news.

He knew he had done enough to pass his exam. He had studied and had been confident throughout the exam. But under that excitement was a loss and loneliness that he had tried most of his life to ignore; he could not share this with moment with Mycroft.

 

It had always bothered him with milestones in his life that Mycroft had never been there. One day he would be able to share them with him but it wasn’t the same. He had lost count with how many people had come up to him, so excited that they had found their Greg. Lost count the amount of time his hopes had risen when a man approached him only to be dashed when their names were never Mycroft.

 

His night with Tiffany had been pleasurable. He allowed himself to get lost in the moment, to be intimate with another person and allowed himself a moment to forget that he was still alone but there were others out there just like him. When he woken the next morning she was already gone and guilt made him on edge. He wasn’t one hundred percent sure what his relationship with Mycroft would become but he felt as if he had just cheated on the man.

 

He cleared his throat and pulled out his phone, pressing the familiar contact number of his mother.

 

“Greg dear, how did your exam go?” Mrs. Lestrade asked and Greg allowed himself the distraction instead to wallow in his guilt.

 

* * *

 

“John!” Mike said, eyes widening with surprise as he saw the rugby star on the other side of his door.

 

“Hey Mike,” John greeted. He shifted the rucksack high up his shoulder and cleared his throat. “Would you mind if I crashed here for a bit?”

 

Mike ushered him in, surprised. Something terrible must have happened for John Watson to ask for help. “Everything alright?” he asked carefully. He moved to the fridge and pulled out a couple of beers before handing one to John.

 

John collapsed onto the couch and took a grateful sip of his beer. He licked lips and his hand clenched on his thigh. He looked at the bruises and remembered the satisfaction of why he had them. “My dad kicked me out.”

 

Mike opened his own beer and took a sip, slowly processing the information. John had never said it out aloud but Mike knew he lived in a less then ideal situation at home – the cuts and bruises Mike had helped him stitch up proof of that.

 

“You can stay here as long as you like,” Mike said.

 

“Thanks,” John said.

 

“What about Harry?” Mike asked after a moment of silence.

 

John shrugged, frowning at his lap. “She upped and left about a month ago. Found someone to live with. Not her soul mate but a friend… I think. Haven’t heard from her since.”

 

Mike nodded. From the little information that John offered about his home life he had come to the conclusion that Harriet was going down a slope that was made of alcohol.

 

“What about your soul mate?” Mike asked. “Have you met them?”

 

John was strictly a private person and never once talked about his soul mate. Mike had never heard him mention their name, if they were male or female or if they even knew each other.

 

“No,” John said simply and there was an edge in his tone that Mike knew to drop it.

 

“Hungry?” Mike asked. “I was going to order some Chinese.”

 

“Yeah, sounds good,” John nodded and slumped into the couch cushions.

 

Mike clapped his shoulder and pulled out his phone while he searched for the take out menu.

 

* * *

 

 Sherlock stepped out of the rehab center and took one last look at the countryside. Soon he would be back in London and be able to breathe properly again. When he heard the tap of his brother’s umbrella behind him he tightened his coat around him.

 

“Ready to go?” Mycroft asked.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said and strode to the car. He hated the fact that he would owe Mycroft for this but he did have to thank his brother for getting him clean.

 

“What do you plan on doing now that you are clean?” Mycroft asked as the car rolled away. “Something worthwhile, I hope.”

 

“Consulting Detective,” Sherlock answered promptly.

 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and brushed away some imaginary lint on his suit. “Consulting Detective. Not a pirate then?”

 

“I solved another two un-solved crimes just from reading the paper while getting clean,” Sherlock said. “The police need me.”

 

“And where do you plan on living?” Mycroft asked.

 

Sherlock eyes darted over his brother and sneered. “Don’t be absorbed.”

 

“Merely a suggestion while you find your feet,” Mycroft said idly.

 

“I’ll be fine,” Sherlock dismissed. “I already have a place set up. Not quite the location I was hoping for but good enough.”

 

“I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. He cleared his throat. “And what of John?”

 

Sherlock looked out the window. “I have a wager to win.”

 

Mycroft smiled. “Very good.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who has reviewed! 
> 
> There will be another chapter! So stay tuned kids! 
> 
> Happy Reading :)


	3. Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gahhhh!!!! Thank you so much everyone for all your wonderful feedback! I am so happy that you are all enjoying this! 
> 
> I apologize for any mistakes and I hope you all enjoy :)

* * *

“It’s Molly, isn’t it?” Greg asked as he smiled at the young morgue attendant.

 

“Y-yes,” Molly stuttered and giggled nervously.

 

“Have you got something to report?” Lestrade asked, gesturing to the clipboard in her hand.

 

“Oh!” Molly’s cheeks flushed pink and she nodded her head in a jerky movement. “Yes, I do. Umm, here.” Molly led him over to where his victim was laid out on the cold steel slab.

 

The zipper being pulled down was loud in the cold area and Greg suppressed a shiver. He had dealt with dead bodies before but he believed it would take him a long time before he ever got a semblance of being okay with seeing one. The body was of a male who had died suspiciously with no obvious wounds. It had his forensic team (led by a man named Anderson) baffled and so Lestrade had made the trip to the morgue to find out more details.

 

“I ran a full toxicology report on your victim,” Molly said and she looked sadly at the body. “He was clean.”

 

“Clean?” Lestrade frowned. “Are you sure?”

 

Molly nodded. “Yes. I double-checked and I ran beyond the standard testing. Nothing.”

 

Lestrade ran a hand through his hair and then pointed at the body. “But he’s dead. No wounds, nothing. There must be some kind of poison or something.”

 

“Wrong.”

 

Greg turned at the deep baritone voice that vibrated around the morgue. Striding towards them was a tall man with a long dark coat and blue scarf wrapped around his neck. His dark curls were a stark contrast against the pale skin and he was pulling off a pair of dark gloves. Greg spared a glance at Molly who had straightened, her pinks still flushing pink and Greg had never thought heart-eyes were a thing.

 

“Hi Sherlock,” Molly greeted.

 

“What do you mean wrong?” Lestrade frowned when Sherlock didn’t respond to Molly’s greeting.

 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock drawled, approaching the body.

 

“No,” Greg said, feeling like he had just taken a side step on reality.

 

Sherlock scoffed. “Of course it wasn’t poison or any other silly toxin you may have had Molly run. Obvious since there is no blackening of the tongue or any other sign of toxin abuse.”

 

Greg blinked as Sherlock rattled off his observations.

 

“Clearly it was the head wound that killed him.”

 

“Head wound?” Greg frowned and he stepped closer to the body. He glanced at the head and he turned to Sherlock. “What bloody head wound? There’s nothing there!”

 

“He’s right,” Molly said, looking at her clipboard. “There’s no head wound, Sherlock.”

 

“You see, but you don’t _observe_ ,” Sherlock drawled. Her pulled on a pair of latex that he snatched from his pocket.

 

Greg sent Molly a classic what-the-fuck-look before returning to Sherlock who was now picking at the scalp. Greg’s gut clenched and he cleared his throat, shoving his hands into his pockets.

 

“Professionally done of course and not a bad job either,” Sherlock said. “You can hardly notice the glue or the stiches which would have been found if a full body examination had been finished but since you were looking for toxins it was missed.”

 

“I-I” Molly stuttered.

 

To Greg’s utter surprise Sherlock began peeling back the hair where the stiches and the glue began to pry apart. He peeled it back until Greg could clearly see a head wound that dented into the brain.

 

“I believe your killer will be a taxidermist,” Sherlock said, placing the hairpiece down. “Highly skilled too. Any of your suspects fit that criteria?”

 

Greg mentally ran through his list and let out a startled laugh. “We’ll I’ll be. The victims brother’s friend is a taxidermist.”

 

Sherlock nodded. “Like I said, obvious. Molly, do you happen to have any toes I could have for an experiment.”

 

“Oh, umm, yes I think so,” Molly said and she scampered off to one of the giant fridges.

 

“Arrest the friend,” Sherlock said.

 

“Hang on? How did you do that?” Greg asked.

 

“I’m a consulting detective,” Sherlock said. “The science of deduction. You can look it up on my website.”

 

“A consulting detective?” Greg frowned having never heard such a term.

 

“Only one in the world,” Sherlock said giving him a quick grin that Greg wasn’t sure what to make of it. “I invented it.”

 

Something inside Greg clicked. “Wait. Those tips were from you?”

 

“I was hardly keeping my identity a secret,” Sherlock huffed. “Ah, thank you, Molly.” He took the bag of toes that Molly had retuned too. “Give me a call if you come up against something interesting.”

 

“Hang on,” Greg almost growled as Sherlock started to walk away. “I don’t have your number. I don’t even know who you are!”

 

“Yes you do,” Sherlock said.

 

As he vanished around the corner Greg’s phone chimed and he fished it out of his pocket. He blinked at the new number that flashed up on his screen. He opened the text.

 

_Sherlock Holmes._

“Bastard,” Greg growled and smiled disbelievingly at where Sherlock had just left.

 

* * *

 

 John knocked on the door and waited until he heard his sister call him in. The door clicked behind him and he crossed the hotel room and came to stand beside Harry. They examined themselves in the mirror.

 

John was proud to say that Harry looked beautiful. Her hair was finally soft and flowing since she had met Clara, her skin was no longer a sickly pale but plump and pink. Gone were the dark shadows and the cuts and bruises she had acquired during her drinking binges.

 

Harry was clean.

 

“You look beautiful,” John told her honestly.

  
Harry smiled, turning away from the mirror to face her brother properly. “You look handsome too, Johnny.”

 

John smiled at the childhood nickname, one that had not been uttered in years.

 

“Can you believe it?” Harry asked, taking in a shaking breath. Her hand shook as she smoothed them over the white dress she had picked out. It wasn’t a traditional wedding dress but the symbolism was there. “I’m getting married to Clara. My Soul mate.”

 

“I know,” John smiled tightly.

 

“Didn’t think I would find her to be honest,” Harry chuckled darkly. “For a while I didn’t think I should. Didn’t think I was good enough for her.” She shook her head, the curls she had done bouncing against her cheek. “Dad fucked us up, Johnny.”

 

John’s jaw tightened at the mention of their father.

 

“You don’t even mention his name,” Harry said. “Not since I told you not to when we were kids and dad nearly drowned you in the sink.”

 

John remembered the phone call he got from Harry the day she had met Clara. She used her name every chance she got. Over and over she said her name. Clara, Clara, Clara.

 

“Imagine what he would do if he could see us now,” Harry said.

 

“If he could manage to pick himself up off the bar floor,” John said tightly. “Enough about him. Don’t let him ruin your day.”

 

“The way you are still letting him ruin yours?” Harry asked, eyes tightening. “Applying to be an Army Doctor, Johnny? What about –“

 

“Maybe he’ll be over there, wherever they send me,” John quickly interrupted her. He couldn’t stomach to hear her mention his soul mates name not when he hadn’t spoken it aloud since they were children.

 

“Not exactly a middle eastern name, Johnny,” Harry snorted. She looked at him sadly. “Dad can’t hurt you anymore. He can’t ruin this. Aren’t I proof of that?”

 

She was and John knew that nothing his father could do would hurt either of them. But John couldn’t bare it if anything happened to his soul mate. He couldn’t let himself hope. Any mention of soul mates and they were beaten, any attempt to find them was punished out of them and so John had never allowed himself to hope that he would find his soul mate because hope meant pain.

 

“Yeah,” John said. “You are.”

 

Harry sighed. “You’re still going to go to war, aren’t you?”

 

John nodded. “Pain is all I know, Harry.”

 

“Do you think if you found him, you won’t be in pain anymore?” Harry asked.

 

John jaw tightened again and he cleared his throat. “We should get going. Can’t be late for your big day.”

 

Harry nodded and gave John a sad smile. “I’m ready. Are you?”

 

John was disappointed in himself too. “Ready.”

 

* * *

“Sir?”

 

Mycroft looked up as his assistant strode across his office towards him, her heels clicking against the concrete floor.

 

“Background on the detectives at New Scotland Yard,” Anthea said, holding out a large file. “Everyone you requested.”

 

Mycroft nodded and took the file, placing it in front of him. “Thank you.”

 

“You brother has posted a new blog post,” Anthea said, her blackberry appearing almost magically in her hand, her fingers already dancing over the small keys. “Something about a taxidermist being a killer.”

 

“Yes, rather obvious,” Mycroft said. “Print it out, I’ll read it on the way to my three fifteen meeting.” He stood, smoothing out his suit and buttoning the middle button of his jacket. He picked up the file and swiped up his umbrella and headed for the door.

  
“Yes sir,” Anthea said, eyes never once leaving her phone.

 

By the time they reached the car Mycroft had solved at least two minors problems in his schedule and opened up some free time at his exclusive club. He settled himself in the car, Anthea taking the seat opposite him, and opened up the files.

 

He flipped through them quickly, gleaming more information from the photo ID then the actual information documented on the page. Several of them had questionable private lives but nothing Mycroft needed to attend to at this moment.

 

He flipped over the next page.

 

The only shift in his expression was the stiffening off his shoulders and the quick bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. Gregory Lestrade’s name immediately stood out among the many other words spread out across the page. Unlike the other pages, Mycroft took his time reading Greg’s file. He was impressed with Greg’s resume and was pleased that there was nothing undignified in the man’s file.

 

“Organize a meeting with Gregory Lestrade,” Mycroft said, tucking the dossier on top and closed the folder. “As soon as my schedule allows it.”

 

“You have some free time tonight at ten o’clock sir,” Anthea said. “Shall I schedule it in?”

 

“Please,” Mycroft said.

 

“A potential soul mate perspective, sir?” Anthea said.

 

“Perhaps,” Mycroft allowed. He wasn’t surprised that Anthea knew. He was one of the few people that he allowed himself to be close too. In his line of work anyone could be a potential threat but Anthea had, for the time being, proven herself to be loyal. Not that he had ever shared much of his personal life with her but there were some things that he could not hide from her.

 

“Very good sir,” Anthea said and made a note in her blackberry.

 

Mycroft looked out the window and worked on squashing the rising hope like he had done with all previous met Greg’s.

 

* * *

“Good job sir,” Sally Donovan said.

 

Greg looked up at the young officer. “Thank you.”

 

“Gives taxidermy a whole new level of creepy, doesn’t it?” Sally said.

 

Remembering the way the hairpiece had come off Greg whole-heartedly agreed. “Can’t give me the credit for that find though.”

 

“Sir?” Sally frowned.

 

“Sherlock Holmes was the one who found the head wound,” Greg said. “It was quite brilliant actually.”

 

“Sherlock Holmes?” Sally frowned. “The freak that kept calling in tips on cases? Did you know those calls came from a rehab center, right?”

 

Greg was well of this and did have some trepidation when it came to looking into the man’s tips. Since Greg had no other leads he had done so and once again Sherlock had been correct. Sherlock had talent and Greg respected that. He was even considering (quietly) bouncing ideas of Sherlock if a case got too tricky.

 

“Nobody else knew about the head wound, he did,” Greg said. “Lucky for us we as we never would have been able to pin murder on the friend.”

 

Sally scoffed. “You’ve seen his website, sir. It’s a load of bull. He’s not even qualified.”

 

Greg shrugged. Sally was headstrong and a wonderful officer and would go far if she managed to leave her judgments at the door before she set to work. He glanced at his watch and sighed. It was nearing ten and he hadn’t even so much as had a biscuit since lunch. Standing up, he grabbed his belongings and headed for the door. “Have a good night, Sally.”

 

“You too, sir,” Sally said.

 

Greg shivered in the cool London air and didn’t even manage two steps before someone was calling his name. He frowned at the woman, glancing up and down the street as his nerves started to take hold and his training kicked in.

 

“Mycroft Holmes has requested you meet him,” the woman said.

 

Greg felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach and he was sure he looked pretty stupid standing in the middle of the path with his eyes bugging out of his head and his mouth open like a gaping fish. “What?”

 

The woman quirked an eyebrow and Greg swallowed. “Mycroft Holmes is waiting for you, Gregory. If you please.”

 

As if his legs weren’t attached to his own body he felt himself moving and slipping into the car. He hardly registered the car ride, his mind simply refusing to comprehend anything other than Mycroft. He was going to meet his soul mate. For the first time. Years of waiting, of being the wrong Greg and he was finally having his turn.

 

As the car came to a stop Greg palms began to sweat and he wiped them nervously on his pants. The car door was opened for him and he tried not to trip as he slid out. His gaze automatically found the only other figure in the room. Greg swept Mycroft’s form, taking in the expensive suits, the rigid posture and the steady gaze that was directed straight at him.

 

“Gregory Lestrade,” Mycroft said and his lips quirked into a smile. “A pleasure to finally meet you.”

 

Greg stepped forward until the a few paces from each other, his grin becoming lopsided. “I could say the same.”

 

Mycroft shifted, allowing his gaze to run over Greg. “I apologize for the cloak and daggers. One must be careful in my line of work. You never know who is listening.”

 

“What do you do?” Greg asked.

 

“I occupy a minor position in the British Government,” Mycroft said.

 

Greg felt his eyes bug out once again.

 

“You are a Detective, of course,” Mycroft said. “Congratulations.”

 

“Thank you,” Greg said, clearing his throat. Mycroft was far more impressive then Greg had ever dreamed of and he was starting to feel a tad inadequate.

 

“You have just finished your shift, correct?” Mycroft asked and Greg nodded. “Are you hungry?”

 

The inadequacy began to fade at the simple question, allowing him to feel as if they were on mutual ground. “Yeah.”

 

“Would you like to accompany to dinner?” Mycroft said. His gaze skittered around the warehouse they were in. “We could speak in a more comfortable location.”

 

“Yeah, I would like that,” Greg said.

 

Mycroft smile widened. “Excellent.”

 

* * *

The force of the engine on plane rumbled and vibrated through John making feeling anything impossible. It was fantastic. London had fallen behind him hours ago and he was on his way to Afghanistan. John looked around at his fellow comrades. These were the people he would be spending the next few years (hopefully) with and he smiled.

 

He had been relieved to hear that many of the people in his unit hadn’t found their soul mates but there were a select few that had. One man had even lost his soul mate, which led to him joining the army. He had said he had nothing left to lose.

 

John had felt a twinge of guilt as he had said goodbye to Harry and her new wife Clara. Harry had begged him not to go but John claimed he had to – the Army had paid for his medical degree after all. She had been furious, called him a coward and that he was just running from trying to find his soul mate because he was scared.

 

He was scared. Scared of what pain would come with finding his soul mate because that’s all he could associate with them. John wasn’t sure if he knew how to handle that. Harry should have understood – he couldn’t just wait around to accidentally stumble upon his soul mate. Harry had and nearly drunken herself into an early death. At least John would be doing some good while he potentially started his downward spiral.

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be another chapter! Happy reading :)


	4. Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you all so much for your wonderful reviews! You have all been so amazing with supporting this story! 
> 
> I am so sorry for the delay in updating! I had work all day and been having headaches which slowed the writing process down a lot! I'm also sorry for the shortness of the chapter! 
> 
> Apologies for any mistakes and I hope you all enjoy :)

* * *

 

**Part Four**

“You have already met my brother,” Mycroft said. Somehow he made eating look so elegant and classy while Greg felt like he was making a mess of everything.

 

The restaurant that had been chosen was a small shop and the place was empty, something Greg had the suspicion of Mycroft doing to ensure their privacy.

 

“I have?” Greg frowned. He reached for his beer, taking a large gulp.

 

“I believe you met in the Bart’s morgue the other day. Sherlock Holmes,” Mycroft said.

 

Greg only just managed not to spit his beer everywhere and hastily wiped his chin where it had dribbled down. He swallowed the lot, coughing roughly. “Sherlock’s your brother?” he managed to choke out. He leaned roughly back in his chair and stared at his soul mate. “Christ.”

 

Mycroft chuckled and sipped his red wine. “Yes, he does often inflict that response.”

 

“Can you do what he does?” Greg asked. “The, what did he call it?”

 

“Science of deduction,” Mycroft answered easily. “And yes. Who do you think taught him?”

 

“That’s incredible,” Greg said.

 

Mycroft looked briefly surprised and he cleared he throat. “Nothing that an intellectual mind could not produce.”

 

Greg shifted in his chair.

 

“Do not be insulted, Gregory,” Mycroft said. “You are highly intelligent. I myself have been tested as a genius, as well as Sherlock. I do not wish you to ever fell inferior.”

 

To hide his blush and immense relief Greg took another bite of his food and chewed it thoroughly.

 

“I have to tell you how immensely grateful I am that I have found you,” Mycroft continued. “You can imagine how many Greg’s I have come across.”

 

Greg could imagine. “I agree. I honestly didn’t think I would find you. It’s a relief to know that you do exist.”

 

“Sherlock will be disappointed,” Mycroft said.

  
“How come?” Greg frowned. Having just met the man he couldn’t imagine that Sherlock had anything to be disappointed about. Did Sherlock not think him worthy enough to be Mycroft’s soul mate? It was unfair and hit a little to close to home for Greg’s liking having already those doubts in his mind.

 

“We have a wager,” Mycroft said. “It began when Sherlock first revealed his soul mates name. The first to find their soul mate would receive a favor to be called upon whenever with no limitations or questions asked. You see Sherlock has a very common soul mate name also. He was rather impatient at that age.”

 

Greg blinked. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

 

“You’ll never be bored,” Mycroft grinned.

 

Greg smiled back. Yeah, he could get used to this. His smile turned to interest when a phone buzzed loudly and Mycroft sighed. Greg waited for Mycroft to read the message and he knowingly nodded.

 

“You have to go,” Greg stated.

 

“I’m afraid so,” Mycroft sighed, putting his phone back into his pocket. “Urgent meeting I’m afraid with the Chinese government.”

 

Greg nodded and had the suspicion that Mycroft was a bit more than a minor position in the British Government. “Thank you, for dinner.”

 

“Thank you for indulging me,” Mycroft said. He paused for a small fraction but Greg heard it. “I would like to do this again, more often.”

 

Surprised by the slight hesitance in the suggestion Greg quickly nodded. He wasn’t sure why Mycroft was feeling unsure. Hadn’t Greg readily agreed to jump in an un-marked car just to come see him and agreed to dinner embarrassingly quickly. “Yes, please.”

 

Mycroft subtly relaxed and nodded. “I will contact you.”

 

“You already have my number too, don’t you?” Greg said.

 

“Did you need to ask?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

 

Greg would definitely never be bored.

 

* * *

 

“Watson!”

 

John looked up at the solider he was currently trying to sew up. Without missing a beat he pulled up his weapon and fired at the insurgent that was heading directly for him. He watched the man stumble to his knees before falling dead. Not allowing himself to get caught up in the moment he finished up sewing up his solider and grunted as he moved him towards the Humvee.

 

The next minute they were speeding away heading back to their base camp.

 

“Will he live, Watson?” the driver – a man named George - asked.

 

“He’ll live,” John said while he examined the job. His heart was pounding but he focus was on the solider. “Here that? You’re going to make it.”

 

“Going to make it, Sophie,” the solider said and the grunted as another wave of pain registered.

 

John pursed his lips together and looked away. This was one of the soldiers who had a soul mate to go home to. John thought that coming to another country, getting lost in the pain and doing some good would make him – not forget his soul mate – but put a new perspective on the idea. But it was day’s like this where his friends were bleeding out and scared and the days where he couldn’t save their lives that the weight of having lost their souls sat heavily on him that he wondered if he had made the right decision and not tried harder to find his soul mate. Had he let his fear of his pain keep him from something amazing, brilliant and life changing?

 

The solider made another groan and John forced himself to focus. His soul mate would have to wait.

 

* * *

 

 Sherlock scowled at Greg, mentally savoring the way Lestrade shifted uneasily under the weight of his glare. He couldn’t believe this. Mycroft was going to be unbearably smug. Selfishly he blamed John and his stupid name for the predicament that he was now in.

 

“Your name is Greg,” Sherlock spat.

 

“You didn’t know that when you stole my phone number?” Greg frowned.

 

Sherlock waved his question with a flick of his hand. “Irrelevant. I didn’t _need_ your first name. Now Mycroft will be insufferable.”

 

“Because of your wager,” Greg summarized.

 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed further. “Of course he told you. To rub it in no doubt.” He huffed and looked back into the microscope. He couldn’t think with Lestrade staring dumbly at him. He needed to think of a way to get out of this wager. He already owed Mycroft too much already.

 

“No need to look so put out,” Greg said. “You should be happy for your brother and for me.”

 

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. “Yes, this had turned out rather favorable in my case, hasn’t it? With Mycroft being the British Government you being police would come in handy.”

 

Greg rolled his eyes. “Is that all you can think about? Cases?”

 

“The game is everything,” Sherlock said.

 

“What about your soul mate?” Greg asked.

 

Sherlock whole body locked and his eyes flickered over to Greg’s. His jaw clenched and through gritted teeth he said, “What did Mycroft tell you of my soul mate?”

 

“Nothing,” Greg spluttered out quickly. “Only that they too have a common name like mine.”

 

Sherlock continued to survey Greg and decided that he was telling the truth. His eyes flickered back to his microscope. “Did you come here just to tell me that you and my brother have started up a relationship?”

 

Greg blushed bright red. “We’re not in a relationship! We’ve just met.”

 

Sherlock smirked. “Of course.”

 

“We had dinner,” Greg almost yelled. “That’s all.”

 

Sherlock, feeling infinitely more cheerful, smiled amusedly at Greg. “And have agreed to another. Did you come by just to deny your intention of starting up a romantic involvement with my brother?”

 

It was Greg’s turn to scowl. “I have a case if you’re interested.”

 

“Let me hear it,” Sherlock said.

 

“I don’t think I want to tell you know,” Greg said, shoving his hands into his pockets.

 

“Why not?” Sherlock _did not_ pout.

 

Greg rolled his eyes. “Fine. Here, this is the case file.” He handed over the folder he had brought with him.

 

Sherlock took it and opened it up quickly. His eyes scanned over the page eagerly and within a few minuets he scoffed, closed the folder and held it out for Greg to take hold again. “Dull.”

 

“Dull?” Greg spluttered. “The man was murdered.”

 

“Yes, obviously by the wife,” Sherlock said. “A point three and not worth my time.”

 

Greg shook his head not even bothering. “Fine.” He turned and started walking away. He had almost made it to the door when Sherlock stopped him.

 

“I am happy for you.”

 

Greg looked over his shoulder but Sherlock wasn’t looking at him. “Thank you.”

 

“John.”

 

“What?” Greg frowned at the abrupt and rapid changes in conversation.

 

“That is my soul mates name,” Sherlock said.

 

Greg swallowed. John was even worse then Greg.

 

* * *

 

_**3 Years Later** _

“Take Cover!”

 

John dove as bullets smacked into the ground a few feet away and took cover behind a decaying brick wall. All around him his fellow soldiers dove for cover. He watched, sick and horrified, as one of his men fell the ground, chest bursting open with bullets, blood spraying out and coating the desert sand red.

 

“Timmy!” one of the men shouted.

 

Timmy didn’t move, slumped in the dirt face first.

 

“Somebody find that sniper!”

 

John scanned the area but he couldn’t see anything. There were too many places the sniper could be. His gaze went back to Timmy and to his horror he saw the solider twitch.

 

Timmy was still alive.

 

“Cover me!” John shouted.

  
“Are you insane?”

 

“Timmy’s still alive,” John said. “One three. One, two, three.”

 

Rapid gunfire rang out around his as he dove to Timmy. He turned the solider over as quickly as he could and Timmy moaned. John took in the damage and counted three bullet holes in the man.

 

“You’re going to be okay,” John said as soothingly as he could. “But this is going to hurt,”

 

John spun and grabbed Timmy by the shoulders and started hauling towards cover.

 

“Hurry Watson!”

 

More bullets rang out and John nearly dropped Timmy as he felt his shoulder rip apart. He screamed but didn’t stop moving until they were safe. He collapsed against the wall, and screamed through his teeth.

 

 _Please God, let me live_ John thought frantically. _Please. Sherlock._

“Sherlock,” John gasped before the edge of his vision began to darken and he saw nothing.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed! Next chapter will be SHERLOCK AND JOHN'S MEETING!!!!!! EEEP! 
> 
> Happy reading :)


	5. Part 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much everyone! It's the chapter you have all been waiting for! SHERLOCK AND JOHN MEETING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing this chapter :) I apologize for any mistakes and I hope I have done it justice!

**Part Five**

For the first time in a long time Greg was the first one out of bed. He had only managed to accomplish this feat twice in the two years that he and Mycroft had begun sharing a bed. He remembered the year of dining and getting to know one another. Neither had been sure where this was going and throughout the year Greg had begun to develop romantic feelings towards Mycroft.

 

Not at the level of deducing as the Holmes brother it took Greg all of his courage to confront Mycroft and nearly yelled at the man when he had been going grey for nothing. Mycroft, in his own emotional stiltedness, had fallen for him too. Greg often rolled his eyes when people said that Sherlock was emotionally stunted when really Mycroft was just as bad. At least Mycroft had a grip on what was socially appropriate and could function like a normal human being whereas Greg still struggled with not strangling his (hopefully soon-to-be) brother in-law.

 

It was a rare day when Mycroft got to sleep in and Greg often struggled to keep Mycroft not working when it happened. He enjoyed the more open look that Mycroft had when was asleep, where his mind, for the moment, could not run a hundred miles an hour. Though Greg severely doubted that Mycroft’s mind ever dropped below one hundred.

 

“You’ll be late,” Mycroft said, his voice not nearly as rough as Greg’s in the morning.

 

“I know,” Greg sighed. “I’m just soaking this up while I can.”

 

Mycroft eyes opened and he rolled into a comfier position to better look at his soul mate. “Don’t get used to it.”

 

Greg rolled his eyes. “Workaholic.”

 

“Would a late dinner help ease your _worries_?” Mycroft asked silkily.

 

“Yeah, I think it would,” Greg nodded and then smiled at his soul mate. “Call me when you can.” He leaned over and kissed Mycroft lightly. He couldn’t afford to get caught up in the kiss. Even after two years he still couldn’t believe that he could kiss Mycroft and that he was in a steady relationship with the man. For a year he had convinced himself that his romantic feeling weren’t retuned and he would have been happy just to be friends with the man, as long as he had Mycroft in any capacity.

 

“Good luck with your murders,” Mycroft said.

 

“Their suicides,” Greg frowned as he stood up from the bed.

 

“Of course,” Mycroft smirked.

 

Greg’s shoulder’s slumped. “What aren’t you telling me?”

 

“You’re officially running late,” Mycroft said purposefully.

 

Greg scowled, grabbing his phone and wallet along with his badge and gun. “I hate it when you do that.”

 

“I know,” Mycroft smirked.

 

“A bloody great dinner you owe me,” Greg shouted as he left the bedroom in a huff. First Sherlock and now Mycroft – Greg hated it when they tagged teamed him.

 

* * *

 

 “What do you think, dear?” Mrs. Hudson asked as she watched Sherlock flit about the apartment.

 

“Perfect,” Sherlock said, giving her a rare smile. “I’ll take it.”

 

Mrs. Hudson smiled brightly and clapped her hands together. “Oh I’m so happy you’re going to take it. And after everything you did for me I’m giving you a special deal on the rent, love.”

 

Sherlock nodded, pleased. Mrs. Hudson’s case had been fascinating. He had expected her when she came to him to get her husband off the execution block, not ensure it. He had been raptured with her ever since.

 

“You should get a roommate,” Mrs. Hudson said. “I think it will be good for you. Help you with the rent too, assuming you don’t want Mycroft to pay for some of it.”

 

Sherlock scowled at the mention of his brother. Three years and Mycroft still hadn’t come and collected on their wager. Sherlock hadn’t expected any less but it was still irritating to have that hanging over his head.

 

“Perhaps,” Sherlock said.

 

The doorbell rang and Mrs. Hudson made a soft ‘oh’ noise. “I wonder who that is?”

 

“That will be my things,” Sherlock said. “I had them delivered over.”

 

Mrs. Hudson rose an eyebrow. “So quickly?”

 

Sherlock grinned. “No time to waste.”

 

Mrs. Hudson shook her head fondly. “I’ll go let them in but Sherlock, dear. I’m your land lady, not your house keeper!”

 

Sherlock waved her off as she headed down the stairs. He would need a roommate but it would have to be someone suitable and decidedly not boring. More than half of London was dull and the only interesting ones turned out to be killers. Rooming with a killer would piss Mycroft off but Sherlock didn’t need Lestrade breathing down his neck also so he dismissed the idea.

 

“Where would you like this?”

 

Sherlock looked up at the new voice and ran his eyes over the hired help. Slightly overweight, married but sleeping with his sister in-law, no kids but wife is pregnant. Dull.

 

“Anywhere will do,” Sherlock said.

 

The man grunted and dropped the box in the middle of the floor before heading for the stairs again.

 

“Sherlock, the couch is coming up!” Mrs. Hudson shouted from down stairs.

 

Sherlock sighed, his body bristling. He hated moving but at least he was now centered in London and if he had it his way, he would never leave.

 

* * *

 

 “John!” Harry gasped, eyes widening comically as she opened the door.

 

“Hello Harry,” John smiled softly. He took in her slight greasy hair, the way her skin was pale and the dark shadows under her eyes. From her letters John had been able to tell that she had started drinking again. Clara had mentioned it in her letters too.

 

“Oh my god, you prick,” Harry scolded and then pulled him into a hug right there in the doorway.

 

John hissed as the pressure on his wound but sucked it up and hugged his sister back.

 

Harry drew away, eyes immediately falling to his cane and the way his arm was still in a sling. “Bloody hell, John. What the fuck happened?”

 

“What do you think happened?” John rolled his eyes. “I got shot. Can I come in?” The chill London air was starting to bite at his wound, making it throb.

 

Harry stepped aside and allowed him in. He clicked his way down the hallway and into the living room. He made himself comfortable while Harry fell into the chair opposite, still looking at him like he would disappear into thin air.

 

“What happened to your leg?” Harry asked.

 

“Just some pain,” John said. “It will get better.” Maybe if he told himself that more often it would become true. “How have you been, Harry?”

 

Harry snorted and slumped in her chair. “I know Clara told you I started drinking again.”

 

John nodded. “What happened?”

 

“I fell off the wagon. It happens,” Harry shrugged.

 

“ _Why_?” John stressed.   
  
“Geeze, Johnny! I don’t know. Maybe because my only brother was over in Afghanistan getting shot at! Maybe watching the news every night to make sure your face didn’t pop up there as one of the soldiers killed,” Harry drawled sarcastically.

 

“Maybe because dad drank himself to death?” John said.

 

Harry sobered at the words. “They notified you?”

 

“Yes,” John said.

 

“I didn’t go to his funeral,” Harry said. Her fingers danced lightly over her jean covered thighs, right where the burns still scarred.

 

“I wouldn’t have gone either,” John told her. He had thought about that many times over the years, when he had gotten the letter. He wouldn’t have gone. John had said goodbye many years ago. He had wondered if being in Afghanistan made it easier to tell himself he wouldn’t go. Would it have been different had he been in London?

 

“Where’s Clara?” John asked.

 

Harry sniffed. “Staying with her sister for a couple of days. We had a fight.”

 

John spied a couple of wine bottles and swallowed. “I’ve been honorably discharged. I’m back now.”

 

Harry’s eyes glittered with unshed tears. “Really?”

 

John nodded and his jaw clenched.

 

“What are you going to do?” Harry asked.

 

“Look for work,” John said. “I’m staying in London at the moment.”

 

Harry nodded. She sat up quickly and dove for the phone on the coffee table before pressing it into John’s trembling hand.

 

“Take this,” Harry said. “I want you to keep in touch. It’s been too long, Johnny. I want to stay in touch with you. Please.”

 

“I can’t take this,” John said, eyeing the inscription on the back.

 

“Clara won’t mind,” Harry said. “I’ll get a new phone tomorrow and you can have the new one. Just take this for the time being. Please. Clara said I should have tried harder to contact you more. Written you more letters and I should have.”

 

John swallowed. “You did enough.”

 

“I don’t want to be dad,” Harry said. “I don’t want to do to Clara what he did to mum. I need your help, Johnny.”

 

John looked away. He sister was a mess. He was a mess. She was almost driving her soul mate out the door and John still didn’t know where Sherlock was. They were a mess and the only people they had.

 

“Yeah, yeah alright I’ll take it. Thanks.”

 

Harry sighed and fell back into her chair. “Thank you.”

 

“You’re going to do this properly,” John warned her sternly. “And you start by removing all the alcohol in this apartment.”

 

Harry nodded guiltily and stood. John grunted as he got to his feet and followed his sister through the house, watching her with an eagle eye. It was time for them to get there shit together and not let their soul mates down.

 

* * *

 

 “Sir, you have got to stop him from doing that. He’s making us look like fools,” Sally said as she followed him through the bullpen.

 

“If you can tell me how he does it, I’ll stop it,” Greg said. He wasn’t sure how Sherlock had managed to get all the numbers to the media but he wasn’t surprised. Mycroft’s words still haunted him from this morning and he needed to find a connection to link them as murders but he just couldn’t.

 

Pride didn’t want to call Sherlock in on this just yet but he was resigning himself that he may need help soon _if_ he was going to classify these as murders not serial suicides.

 

He went to his office and sat down and pulled out the case files, spreading them out across his desk.

 

“What are you doing, sir?” Sally asked.

 

“Reviewing these files to find out what we are missing,” Greg said.

 

“You don’t believe the _Daily Mail_ when she said that these are murders, do you?” Sally almost scoffed.

 

“Three people have killed themselves in places they had no reason to be in with the exact same poison with which the police haven’t divulged that information,” Greg said. “The press conference was a disaster and if we want good press in the future we need to prove that these are suicides and not murder.”

 

Sally nodded and Greg was pleased to see her looking chastened.

 

“Go over everything about each sight and tell me if you find anything that can link them,” Greg ordered.

 

“Yes sir,” Sally said and obediently went to her desk.

 

Greg rolled his eyes and wondered if kids were easier to raise then dealing with his stubborn staff that questioned his choice in having Sherlock as an ally rather then tossing him aside. Sherlock was capable of greatness and he knew all about Sherlock’s drug history to let him fall back down that path when he was doing so well with himself.

 

His phone started to ring and he saw Mycroft’s name flash up. With a sigh he answered it.

 

“I’m beginning to think you’re right. I hate that,” Greg said.

 

“I know,” Mycroft said sounding unbearably smug. “I apologize for Sherlock’s interruption.”

 

Greg sighed. “I’m afraid that I’m used to it.”

 

“Yes, despite being correct he should know better than to conduct himself in that manner,” Mycroft said. “Despite how he treats me he knows better than to behave with family like that.”

 

The thrill of being called family made Greg’s heart speed up and he sifted in his chair, trying hard not to look like a besotted idiot.

 

“He’s right though,” Greg said. “These aren’t serial suicides are they?”

 

“No,” Mycroft said.

 

Greg sighed. “Damn.”

 

“I have every faith that you will find the culprit. Sherlock may not realize it but you two do make an excellent team when he isn’t fighting you,” Mycroft said. There was a murmur of conversation in the background. “Sorry, Greg I have to go. I will still take you to a late dinner though.”

 

“Alright. Talk to you later.”

 

They hung up and Greg ran a hand over his face. He wondered what Sherlock and Mycroft would do and he snorted. They would have solved it by now.

 

* * *

 

“You can use my lab,” Mike said, unlocking the door and pushing open the door.

 

Sherlock swept past him and shrugged off his coat and unwound his scarf from his neck. He made beeline for the table that had become his, Mike often using the one of the other side of the room.

 

“What are you working on?” Mike asked as he watched Sherlock begin to set up. He had long learnt that Sherlock did say please and thank you and chose not to take it as an insult but rather a compliment that the man considered him useful enough to remain in contact with.

 

“What blood looks like before and after it’s been frozen and was it looks likes defrosted,” Sherlock said. “I also need to determine what bruises form in twenty minuets once a body is deceased.”

 

Mike nodded and wondered what case Sherlock was working on. He would have to look at the man’s website to find out.

 

“So moved into your new place?” Mike asked. It had astounded him that Sherlock had shared that he had moved place and Mike had readily added some contribution to the topic.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

 

“Apartment by yourself?” Mike asked.

 

“Who would want me for a roommate?” Sherlock asked, striding across the room to the fridge.

 

Mike shrugged. “There must be someone. Soul mate maybe?”

 

Sherlock ignored him but Mike didn’t take offense. He knew better then to expect an answer from Sherlock about soul mates. He had tried once before and Sherlock had called him boring before striding off in a sulk.

 

“I’m going to get some lunch. Would you like anything?” Mike asked.

 

“No.”

 

Mike nodded and left without another word, leaving Sherlock to his experiments.

 

* * *

 

“John? John Watson?”

 

At his name John turned and stared at the man calling his name. He looked familiar but John couldn’t quite place him.

 

“Mike. Stanford. We were at Bart’s together,” Mike said with a cheerful smile.

 

“Yes, of course,” John said, reaching out to shake his old friends hand. “Sorry.”

 

“It’s okay. I know, I got fat,” Mike chuckled. “Come, have some coffee with me.”

 

With nothing else to be doing apart from wondering around aimlessly through London John nodded. When they had a coffee each they sat on the park bench and started talking.

 

“Last I heard you were getting shot at. What happened?” Mike asked.

 

“I got shot,” John said simply. He had removed the sling but still had to walk around with the stupid cane. He tapped it against his bad leg once.

 

“And you couldn’t bare to leave London,” Mike said.

 

John scoffed. “I can’t afford London on an army pension.”

 

“Couldn’t Harry help?” Mike asked.

 

“She and her wife have enough going on without adding me to the list,” John said.

 

“What about a flat mate?” Mike suggested.

 

“Come on, who’d want me as a roommate?” John laughed. When Mike started to chuckle John frowned. “What?”

 

“Nothing. You’re just the second person to say that to me today.”

 

“Who was the first?” John asked.

 

Mike smiled. “I’ll introduce you. Come on, you can have a look at Bart’s now. I’m teaching there you know. Bright young things. God I hate them.”

 

John chuckled and together they stood. Bart had both grown and yet stayed the same since John had last been there. As Mike showed him around they caught up with what had both happened since the last saw each other. John was pleased to know that Mike had found his soul mate, a pretty woman but the name of Sandra.

 

“In here,” Mike said opening the door to one of the labs.

 

John limped past him and took in the new equipment and the latest technology. “Bit different from my day.”

 

“Mike I need to borrow your phone.”

 

John looked up at the deep baritone voice and swallowed. John had been known to get around but he appreciated everyone’s beauty and the man before him was extraordinary.

 

“Can’t you use the land line?” Mike asked.

 

“I prefer to text.”

 

“Sorry, it’s in my coat,” Mike said.

 

“Here, use mine,” John offered, fishing it out of his pocket and he handed it to the man.

 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

 

“Sorry?” John frowned. He looked to Mike. “Did you tell him about me?”

 

“Not a word,” Mike smiled.

 

“Afghanistan. How did you know?” John frowned.

 

“Everything about you is military. Your stance, your haircut,” the man rattled off. “You have tan line around your wrist and neck so out in the sun but in a uniform. Military. That leaves Afghanistan or Iraq. You were wounded, shoulder but your therapist is correct that your limp is psychosomatic. You’ve been standing but haven’t asked for a seat like you’ve forgotten about it. Psychosomatic.”

 

“How did you know I have a therapist?” John asked.

 

The man smirked. “You have a psychosomatic limp, of course you have a therapist.”

 

John looked at Mike who was chuckling softly.

 

“He’s like that all the time,” Mike said. “Meet John Watson, Sherlock.”

 

John froze and his gaze snapped to Sherlock’s.

 

“I play the violin at night and sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flat mates should know the worse about each other,” Sherlock said.

 

“What?” John spluttered out. His mind was reeling. After all these years and he was finally standing in front of a man named Sherlock. He had never let himself imagine what their meeting would be like but now he wished he had so that he could have at least _some_ kind of preparation under his belt.

 

“I was just telling Mike I must be difficult to find a roommate for and here is back from lunch with an old friend,” Sherlock said.

 

“What – no, shut up,” John snapped.

 

Sherlock froze, stunning blue eyes blinking at John.

 

“Your name is Sherlock?” John asked.

 

“That was established, yes,” Sherlock said. “You heard Mike say my name I don’t like to repeat myself and – _oh!_ ”

 

John wanted to laugh at Sherlock’s sudden realization but the whole situation was too bizarre so he continued to stare at Sherlock hardly blinking incase the man disappeared.

 

“My name. You have my name,” Sherlock said, his voice barely above a whisper.

 

John didn’t trust himself to speak so he nodded.

 

“John. John. John. John,” Sherlock repeated. “You have the most infuriating name I have ever come across.”

 

John laughed, a loud quick noise.

 

“And you’re late,” Sherlock said, advancing closer to him.

 

“Late?” John spluttered.

 

“Yes, we’ve lost the wager to Mycroft,” Sherlock scowled.

 

“What wager? And who’s Mycroft?” John asked, mind spinning once again.

 

Sherlock waved hand. “Mycroft is my brother but never mind that now.” He was standing so close to John now that the shorter man had to tilt his head back slightly. “I have an apartment in central London where I am getting a special deal. Come tomorrow, nine o’clock to have a look at it.”

 

“The address?” John asked, licking his lips.

 

Sherlock smirked. “221 B Baker Street. I have to go. Left my riding crop in mortuary. Tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

 

Then he was out of John’ space and out of the labs leaving him alone with Mike who looked just as stunned as he did.

 

“Did you know?” John asked.

 

“Not a clue,” Mike said. “Neither of your were forth coming about your soul mates.”

 

John nodded. He had just found his soul mate. John blinked and looked helplessly at Mike.

 

“I think you need another coffee,” Mike frowned. “Or at least a chair.”

 

John thought both would probably help.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to to do one more chapter to finish it off (or maybe two, we'll see). Happy reading :)


	6. Part 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your wonderful feed back with this story! I'm sorry it took me a while to get this chapter out! Stupid work getting in the way of Johnlock! 
> 
> I apologize for any mistakes and I hope you all enjoy :)

**Part 6**

“Sir, they’ve found another body,” Sally said.

 

Greg looked up from the notes that had now spanned across his entire desk. He had spent all of yesterday looking through the notes, looking for _some_ kind of connection only to come up short. He had abandoned his notes when Mycroft had called telling him he was out front and gone to have a wonderful (and well earned) dinner with his soul mate.

 

“You’re frustrated,” Mycroft had said once they had finished their meal.

 

Greg looked up a tad sheepishly. “That obvious huh?”

 

“You’re frustrated by your murders,” Mycroft said.

 

“That’s the thing,” Greg said. “I can’t connect that they are murders and I know you and Sherlock already know that they’re murders but I need the proof, the evidence to show my superiors and evidence to pin it on a bloody person so I can arrest them!”

 

He had run a hand down his face and moaned softly before slumping back into his seat. “Alright, let’s hear your theories.”

 

Mycroft had stood, smoothing his jacket as he did. “I’ll have them sent to your office in the morning. Come.” He held out his hand and Greg took it and allowed himself to pulled up. “Let’s go home.”

 

Then Mycroft had made it so he remembered nothing but viscous moans of pleasure.

 

“Where’s the body?” Lestrade asked Sally, brining himself back to the present.

 

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens,” Sally said.

 

Greg stood, grabbing his badge and gun from his draw before shrugging on his jacket. He swiped his keys off the table and followed Sally out of his office.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock saw John approaching his (hopefully their) apartment and quickly made the cabdriver stop. He paid the man and all but leapt onto the sidewalk.

  
“Morning,” John said, smiling nervously at Sherlock.

 

“Good morning, John,” Sherlock said. He reached out and knocked on the door before stepping back and letting his gaze roam over his soul mate, picking up every little detail that he could.

 

Before an awkward silence could settle over them, Mrs. Hudson opened the door and greeted them warmly before ushering them in.

 

Sherlock led the way in, shrugging out of his coat and scarf.

 

“Nice. Very nice,” John commented and Sherlock smiled, pleased that John could see the potential. “Once we clear all this stuff out it could be very nice.”

 

“Oh,” Sherlock frowned and then cleared his throat. “Well, yes, I could clean up a little.” He grabbed a few letters and then stabbed them with a knife, looking for John’s reaction. He would never admit that he had been nervous about seeing John today. He hadn’t told Mycroft or Lestrade, not until he was sure that John was the real deal.

 

  
“I looked you up last night,” John said, making himself comfortable in the armchair. “The Science of Deduction.”

 

“And?” Sherlock asked.

 

“That’s what you did with me yesterday? Wasn’t it?” John asked.

 

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. The same way I could tell a man was a pilot by his thumb and that you have a brother whose an alcoholic and is having trouble with his wife and is trying to make an effort to be in your life since you have returned from service.”

 

John blinked. “How could you possibly know about the drinking?”

 

Sherlock smirked. “A shot in the dark but a good once. Your phone has an inscription on the back _To Harry, Love Clara xxx._ Three kisses, obviously his partner, most likely soul mates. But he is giving the phone to you, obviously some troubles between the two of them. Scratch marks on the phone from where they have been put in his pocket with his keys and around the charging port. You never see a drunks without them.”

 

“That was incredible,” John said.

 

“You think?” Sherlock asked quietly.

 

“Yes, that was extraordinary,” John nodded firmly.

 

“That’s not what people normally say,” Sherlock said.

 

“And what do people normally say?”

 

“Piss off.”

 

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson admonished but she was smiling. “Look at you two. Do you think you’ll be needing the extra room upstairs?”

 

John swallowed and Sherlock’s cheeks went pink and he spun around to face the window.

 

“Uh, yes, for the time being,” John said and Sherlock breath hitched. He hadn’t really thought of what would happen if he found John. Really he should have put more thought into it and he briefly was starting to panic. He didn’t have friends and all his life people assumed he didn’t have a soul mate. How could he when he claimed to be a high functioning sociopath?

 

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was suddenly closer and Sherlock whirled around to find the solider a few paces away and Mrs. Hudson descending the stairs.

 

“Sorry, you were saying?” Sherlock swallowed.

 

“It’s okay,” John said, shifting his weight as his leg gave a twinge of pain.

 

Sherlock understood what John was saying. He could see the nerves in John even though he was trying to hide it. But Sherlock saw everything and for the first time in his life he desperately didn’t want to fuck up.

 

“I’m afraid I am out of my depth,” Sherlock admitted. He glanced at the door again and crossed to it, shutting it quietly. No doubt Mrs. Hudson had already worked out who exactly John was and Sherlock didn’t need her gossiping ear listening in on what was already an uncomfortable moment.

 

“Me too,” John said. He ran a hand through his short blonde hair. “To be honest, for a long time I didn’t _want_ to find you.”

 

Sherlock lifted his chin, eyes narrowing briefly. What he saw made his jaw clench and an anger he hadn’t known for anyone other than Mycroft well up inside him. He had never had the urge to defend someone he had just met but the idea of someone harming _his_ soul mate – the one thing he had been looking forward to in his life filled him with such a rage he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to hug John or pummel the vile humans who ever hurt him.

 

“What did your father do?” Sherlock growled through gritted teeth. He stepped closer to John and was pleased that the man didn’t flinch with his advances.

 

“He tried to wash your name from my head,” John said.

 

Sherlock gritted his teeth. “He tried to drown you.”

 

John pursed his lips and nodded once.

 

“What changed?” Sherlock demanded. “Why did you want to find me now? You did want to find me, didn’t you?”

 

“Yes, I wanted to find you,” John nodded. “I changed because I got shot. I was going to die and I hadn’t met you. What an absolute waste that would have been.”

 

Sherlock swallowed heavily, mind coming to screeching halt. “You really think that?”

 

“You’re not told that often, are you?” John asked.

 

It was amazing how in such a short amount of time the two had found it so easily to read each other. They really were soul mates; there was no denying it.

 

Pounding footsteps on the stairs made them both turn to the door and Sherlock silently cursed Lestrade’s unfortunate timing. He would have to work on that in the future so that the man would not interrupt him and John in such important moments like now.

  
“There’s been a fourth,” Sherlock said in a way of greeting. “What’s different? You wouldn’t have come if this one wasn’t different.”

 

“You know how they never leave notes?” Greg said. “Well, this one did.”

 

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll follow. Where is it?”

 

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens,” Greg said. His eyes flickered over to John, scrunching in confusion.

 

“I’ll be along shortly,” Sherlock dismissed.

 

Greg’s shoulder slumped and he nodded before turning and walking back out again.

 

“What was that about?” John asked.

 

“I work with the police when they are stumped,” Sherlock said. “Consulting Detective, only one in the world.”

 

“Was he talking about those suicides?” John asked.

 

“Murders,” Sherlock murmured. “You were a doctor. An army doctor. Any good?”

 

“Yes. Very good,” John said.

 

“Seen a lot of violent deaths, no doubt.”

 

“Enough for a life time,” John said.

 

“Want to see some more?”

 

“God yes,” John all but breathed out.

 

Sherlock grinned. It was instrumental that John be apart of his work and yes, he could see them together now. They would be brilliant.

 

* * *

 

“Freak’s here, brining him in,” Sally voice crackled over the radio.

 

Greg glared at the radio. He really needed Sally to stop being childish and her constant bullying of Sherlock was going to cause irreversible damage if he couldn’t put a stop to it now. He made is way down the winding staircase and when he reached the bottom he caught the tail end of Sherlock ripping into Sally’s dalliance with Anderson.

 

“Sherlock,” Greg greeted. “Thanks for coming.” Movement over Sherlock’s shoulder caught his attention. It took him a moment to recognize the man as the same one at Sherlock’s flat. “Whose he?”

 

“He’s with me,” Sherlock said.

 

“Yes, but who is he?” Greg asked.

 

Sherlock handed the man a blue suit, the same that Greg was currently wearing. “Think, Lestrade.”

 

“Sherlock, are you sure I should be here?” the man asked.

 

“Yes, John. Put that on.”

 

John. Greg’s breath stuck in his throat and he could feel his eyes widening. Mycroft had let it slip a year ago the name of Sherlock’s soul mate and Greg had vowed to keep his eyes and ears open (quietly of course so neither Holmes brother would know) for any John and determine if they had Sherlock’s name.

 

Dumbly he followed the two up the stairs, eyes never straying from John’s. The man was nothing special. He looked ordinary, nothing that should have attracted a Holmes attention. Just like Greg. No wonder the two of them had flown under their radar for so long.

 

The room was lit up with artificial lamps and the pink body was a stark contrast to the decaying of the building. Still Greg could not keep his eyes off John.

 

“What do you think, John?” Sherlock asked after he had danced around the victim.

 

“Of the dead body?” John asked.

 

“Perfectly sound analysis but I was hoping you would go a little deeper,” Sherlock said.

 

Greg tried not to laugh. He had never seen Sherlock so patient with someone. Anyone else and Sherlock would have been demanding to see their qualifications and threatening to hunt down those who had allowed them to pass. He watched as John crouched down by the body and examine the pink woman’s hands before leaning in and smelling her mouth.

 

Then in an instant Sherlock was dashing off, running down the stairs shouting PINK and was gone leaving Greg with John.

 

“Don’t worry, he get’s like that,” Greg assured him. “Greg Lestrade.”

 

“John Watson,” and he offered his hand to Greg.

 

Greg shook it and gestured for him to follow out while the forensic team descended on the body once again.

 

“Nice to meet you,” Greg said as the started down the stairs. “Don’t mind Sherlock running off. It’s hard to keep him still when he’s struck with a clue.”

 

“You know Sherlock well?” John asked, his cane tapping with each step.

 

“Known and worked with him for three years,” Greg said. “I am his brother’s soul mate.”

 

John nearly missed a step but recovered himself quickly. “Mycroft right? Sherlock said something about a wager?”

 

Greg shook his head. “Yeah. Made it when they were kids. Mycroft still hasn’t collected on it yet. I think he might have been waiting until you and Sherlock found each other. Which, by the way, I am very happy that you have.”

 

John started to flush and Greg pretended not to have noticed. “Yeah, I am too.”

 

They reached the bottom of the stairs and when John was clear of his blue suit he gestured to the door. “I’ll find you a taxi. Take you back to Baker Street.”

 

“That’s okay,” John said. “Just, point me in the direction of the main street.”

 

“Sure,” Greg said. “Just down that way.”

 

“Nice to meet you, Greg,” John nodded and limped past his officers and down the street.

 

Greg pulled out his phone and hit his speed dial number one. Mycroft answered almost immediately.

 

“Don’t even think about kidnapping him,” Greg warned as a greeting.

 

“You know as well as I do that Sherlock will wait as long as possible to introduce me,” Mycroft said.

 

“You’re a wonderful older brother,” Greg said. “You’re also an idiot. Don’t do it.”

 

“I’ll be home late tonight,” Mycroft said. “I’m glad you brought Sherlock on the case.”

 

Greg rolled his eyes. “Nice deflection. Try not to terrify John, Sherlock will never forgive you.”

 

Mycroft hummed. “He’s a solider. Interesting.”

 

“Creep,” Greg said fondly. “I’ll talk to you later.”

 

“Goodbye, Greg.”

 

Greg hung up and sighed. It was going to be a long night.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft had of course pictured what John would be like ever since Sherlock had first spoken his name when they were children. As Sherlock grew and changed so had his mental image of John until Mycroft unwillingly admitted that he had no idea what he would look like.

 

The man before him looked nothing special and in the eyes of a Holmes looked ordinary. But as Mycroft begun to _not_ interrogate he was beginning to see that John was quite the opposite. The solider in him was evident and the way he already stuck up for Sherlock, something that Mycroft had not seen in anybody.

 

Yes, John was utterly perfect for Sherlock and his brother would provide the level of danger and excitement that John so desperately wanted.

 

“I knew you couldn’t help yourself,” Sherlock sneered, crossing the abandoned garage, looking formidable in his long coat.

 

“Don’t be so dramatic, Sherlock,” Mycroft drawled.

 

“I’m being dramatic?” Sherlock scoffed. “You’re the one whose kidnapping John.”

 

“I didn’t kidnap him,” Mycroft said. “We were merely having a chat.”

 

John looked between the two brothers. “Oh, shit. You’re Mycroft, aren’t you?”

 

“Indeed,” Mycroft inclined his head.

 

“Come on, John,” Sherlock said. “I’ve found the case.”

 

“What case?” John frowned.

 

“The woman’s case,” Sherlock said. “Our killer made a mistake. We’re going to dinner.”

 

“Yeah, right. Dinner,” John blinked. He looked at Mycroft again. “Right.”

 

Mycroft merely smirked as Sherlock slowed his stride for John and the two disappeared into the night. Yes, they were utterly perfect for one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be ONE more chapter!!!!!!! :) Happy reading :)


	7. Part 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well guys this is the end :( 
> 
> I want to thank everyone so much for all their wonderful support with this story! You have all been amazing and I have received so much positive feedback with this story I have been overwhelmed! 
> 
> A shout out to Krisdahwolf0 and FourCornerHolmes for your wonderful and truly uplifting support! Thank you so much to the both of you! 
> 
> I know this chapter isn't as long as the others but I felt it really didn't need to be. 
> 
> Thank you all again and apologies for any mistakes!

**Part 7**

“SHERLOCK!” John cried but the detective didn’t hear him. John leveled his gun. He didn’t want to take another man’s life but he couldn’t lose Sherlock, not now.

 

He pushed opened the window and he raised his gun.

 

BANG

 

He watched with grim satisfaction as the man fell, Sherlock leaping quickly to the falling cabbie. John tucked the gun into the waste band of his jeans and turned on his heel, quickly vacating the room. As much as he desperately wanted to go to Sherlock he knew he had to get out of the area if he didn’t want to be caught by the police which John knew were on their way.

 

He exited the wrong building by the back and quickly circled around. It was a type of torture waiting to hear the sirens of the police cars come blaring past and John waited another ten minutes before he walked towards the mess of police cars and went to stand by the tape that had already been strung up.

 

“Haven’t found a hobby yet?” Sally asked as she approached John.

 

“Excuse me?” John frowned.

 

Sally shook her head. “He doesn’t have friends. I told you to stay away. He does this. He gets off on this.”

 

John’s jaw clenched and he shot Sally an unimpressed look.

 

“Do yourself a favor and find a new hobby,” Sally said. “Because following the freak will only cause you pain.”

 

“You’re wrong,” John said simply.

 

Sally shook her head.

 

“He killed a man, did you know that?” Sally said.

 

John said nothing because he knew what Sally wasn’t true but he could say nothing for that would give away his involvement and possibly end with his arrest.

 

Sally started to smirk and John was thankful that Greg took this moment to interrupt them.

 

“John.”

 

“Find him did you?” John asked. “Is Sherlock okay?”

 

“He’s fine,” Greg said. “You can come see him.” Greg lifted the police tape for John to duck under and led him to the back of an ambulance where Sherlock was sitting.

 

John suppressed a snort as a paramedic draped an orange shock blanket over Sherlock’s shoulder, making the taller man’s face twist with confusion.

 

“Why do they keep putting this blanket on me?” Sherlock frowned, directing the question to Greg.

 

“It’s for shock,” Greg said cheerfully.

 

“I’m not in shock,” Sherlock said.

 

“Yeah, but some of the guys want to get photos,” Greg smiled.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and focused on John.

 

“You okay?” John asked. “Ah, what happened, exactly?”

 

“Mysterious shooter,” Greg said. “Of course the guy would have to enemies. Not much to go on though. Area was clean and no sign of the killer.”

 

“Oh I wouldn’t say not much to go on,” Sherlock drawled. “Clearly a professional. That was a crack shot. The person would have had to have a steady hand, nerves of steel. Military background no doubt.”

 

John not so gently kicked Sherlock’s shoes and glared at him.

 

“ _Oh_ ,” Sherlock eyes widened. “Um, yes, no, ignore me. I’m rambling. In shock. Look, I have blanket and everything.”

 

Greg groaned and started shaking his head almost violently. “No! I didn’t hear anything. Nothing. Christ Sherlock.” And he stalked away still muttering under his breath.

 

“Bit not good?” Sherlock asked.

 

“Yeah, bit not good,” John agreed.

  
“You cleaned the powder from under your finger nails,” Sherlock said. “You won’t be convicted and I’m sure we can avoid the court case.”

 

“You were going to take that bloody pill, weren’t you?” John frowned.

 

“Course not. Biding my time. New you’d be there,” Sherlock said.

 

“No you didn’t,” John huffed out a choked laugh. He looked around and lowered his voice. “Don’t run off again.”

 

Sherlock swallowed and looked down at his lap. “You must understand, John. My work is all I have ever had. I must keep my mind occupied otherwise it will start to rot. I will get caught up in the game.” He was startled when two fingers tilted his chin up and he blinked dumbly at John.

 

“I don’t care about you getting caught up in the game,” John said. “I care if you get hurt. The work isn’t the only thing you have, Sherlock. You have me too. We have each other and I’ll be damned if I let yourself get killed.”

 

“You want this,” Sherlock stated because he could see it in the small smile that John had, the way his eyes were sparking with adventure and the way his pulse almost vibrated through the two fingers still under his chin. Or maybe that was his own pulse, he couldn’t be sure.

 

“Yes, I do,” John said giving Sherlock a quick smile before drawing back.

 

Sherlock dropped the blanket from his shoulders and stood. “Dinner?”

 

“Starving,” John said and the two automatically fell into step.

 

They didn’t get far before Sherlock was groaning at John’s side and it was easy to pick the source of his annoyance.

 

“What are you doing here, Mycroft?” Sherlock demanded.

 

John caught Greg rolling his eyes and wondered if he and Greg would be disappearing to the pub in the future whenever the two Holmes brothers were together.

 

“I came to check on you, Sherlock. You did just face off with a serial killer. I was…concerned,” Mycroft said.

 

“Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong,” Sherlock corrected.

 

“Oh Sherlock, must we have these petty fights. You know how much they upset mummy,” Mycroft sighed.

 

“ _I_ upset mummy?” Sherlock scoffed.

 

“Alright you two,” Greg stepped in. “Maybe not here, yeah?”

 

“Yes. Sherlock I do have something to discuss with you,” Mycroft said.

 

“What?” Sherlock scowled.

 

“The matter of our wager,” Mycroft said.

 

Sherlock blinked. “You want to do this now?”

 

“While I have you full attention,” Mycroft said. He gestured with his hand. “Follow me."

 

Sherlock scowled and with a huff he followed his brother several paces away, out of earshot of John and Greg.

 

“What, Mycroft?” Sherlock growled.

 

“At ease, brother,” Mycroft said. “I’m not being unreasonable.”

 

“What tedious task have you assigned for me?” Sherlock asked. “And do hurry.”

 

“I doubt you will find my favor tedious,” Mycroft said. “I do think you will thoroughly enjoy it if you don’t self sabotage yourself.”

 

Sherlock frowned.

 

“Embrace John,” Mycroft said. “In the emotional sense, I don’t need to know about the physical side of your relationship as you don’t need to know mine with Greg.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

 

“Allow yourself, Sherlock, to _be_ with John. There are not many who would do what he did for you tonight. You are remarkable together. My favor is that allow yourself to fully succumb to whatever John gives you. Allow your relationship to blossom into whatever it may be. Don’t overthink it.”

 

Sherlock glanced at John and felt a small flutter when he saw that John was looking at him. He looked back at his brother and frowned. “Why do you want this?”

 

Mycroft shifted. “I do worry about you, Sherlock. I only want to see the best for you and I believe John can give you that. He is your soul mate for a reason. I don’t want to see you throw that away.”

 

“I thought caring was a disadvantage?” Sherlock said.

 

Mycroft nodded. “But it also has its benefits. Greg showed me that.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Mycroft nodded and without a word the two Homes brother’s walked back to their soul mates.

 

“Everything okay?” Greg asked, looking between the two.

 

“Fine,” Mycroft smiled at his partner. “Can I steal you away?”

 

Greg scratched the back of his head and looked over to his team. “Give me a minute.”

 

“I’ll be in the car,” Mycroft nodded and watched as Greg jogged over to Sally. He turned back to John and Sherlock, giving them a small nod. “Evening.”

 

“Try not to start a war on the way home,” Sherlock drawled. “You know what it does to the traffic.”

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes and slid into his car, the door thumping shut a clear dismissal.

 

“Dinner?” Sherlock tried again. The two started walking away, leaving the mess behind them.

 

“The wager?” John asked hesitantly.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock hummed. “Nothing to worry about.”

 

John nodded and didn’t press the issue. Instead he said, “How about Angelo’s?”

 

“Yes alright,” Sherlock agreed.

 

“With a candle,” John said.

 

Sherlock gave him a sidelong glance, a small smile twisting up his lips. “A candle would be romantic.”

 

“Yes, it would, wouldn’t it,” John smirked.

 

Sherlock chuckled. He rather thought Mycroft had wasted their wager because he already had every intention of letting himself fall for John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again everyone!
> 
> If you have any prompts feel free to send them my way and I'll see what I can do :) 
> 
> Happy reading!


End file.
